


The Rose of Love

by Princip1914



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - The Bachelor Fusion, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bad Dirty Talk, Crack Treated Seriously, F/F, First Time, Getting Together, Humor, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, More like bachelor meta than bachelor AU, POV Crowley (Good Omens), POV Outsider, Parade of minor OCs, Post-Apocalypse, Rimming, but not an au, cheesy sex dialogue, implied sex, the bachelorettes ship it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:35:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22314139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princip1914/pseuds/Princip1914
Summary: Someone is here to find love. Is it one of the contestants? Or is it the producers themselves? Find out on the next episode of Rose of Love…(Or Aziraphale and Crowley make a bet, learn some things about themselves, and scandalize a few humans in the process)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 110
Kudos: 242





	1. An Inadvisable Wager

**Author's Note:**

> I started this crack fic over the summer and abandoned it, then friends over at [Good Omens Rom Com](https://goromcom.tumblr.com/Good%20Omens%20Rom%20Com) recommended a fantastic [human bachelor!AU](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21448891/chapters/51112300) by Weatheredlaw, AND The Bachelor came back on TV and well, one thing led to another…
> 
> I am deeply afraid of Chris Harrison and all of Bachelor Nation, thus this fic is NOT about The Bachelor, but a show called The Rose of Love that might seem, on the surface, just a little bit like The Bachelor.

“Well, what do you want to watch?” Crowley asked, flipping through channels. “There’s a new _Good Place_?” 

“I think not,” Aziraphale said, settling on the couch next to him. “You might be able to put aside all your personal feelings about Heaven and Hell and find it funny,” Aziraphale continued, “but I need a few more centuries at least before I would consider the afterlife a comedy, my dear.” 

“Suit yourself,” Crowley shrugged, and continued scrolling. It had been a lovely evening. Dinner out. Just enough drink to make the flush rise so prettily on Aziraphale’s cheeks, to make him looser with his touches, with his endearments. Crowley basked in it. He tried not to do so too obviously in case it made Aziraphale uncomfortable. But he was, after all, a snake and old habits died hard. The apocalypse that wasn’t had only intensified the warm glow he felt around Aziraphale, never mind that the angel had never given more than a hint that the feeling was reciprocated. 

“Ooh, how about this?” Aziraphale said suddenly. 

“Hmm?” Crowley paused in his scrolling, then laughed out loud. “Aziraphale, you wouldn’t like it.” 

“Wouldn’t like it?” Aziraphale spluttered. “My dear boy, I helped invent it!” 

“You helped invent _Rose of Love_?” Crowley exclaimed. “I helped invent _Rose of Love_! Well, I took credit for it in Hell anyway.”

“You told Hell you invented _Rose of Love_ and they were impressed?” Aziraphale asked incredulously.

Crowley nodded. “Got a commendation for it even.” 

“But…the whole premise is about finding love,” Aziraphale said. “People watch it because they believe in romance.” 

Crowley snorted. “People watch it because they love drama, Angel. They take bets on which of the contestants is going to be the craziest. They play drinking games where they drink whenever someone cries or goes to the hospital. This franchise has tarnished millions of souls, believe me.” 

“No,” Aziraphale said, a stubborn glint in his eye. “People say they watch it ironically, but secretly, they watch it because they want to see love win. They want to see a beautiful engagement. It’s nice, Crowley.” 

“No, angel, what they want is to see two beautiful people get engaged on a gorgeous island, and then have a messy public break up six months later. Even better if the breakup is televised or broadcast live.” 

“Well,” Aziraphale said, mouth set in a thin line. “At least some of the contestants are really sincere. They want to find love.” 

“No, they want to find Instagram sponsorships,” Crowley said. 

“Not all of them, surely.” 

“Definitely,” Crowley said. “Even the star of the show. He just wants publicity. I guarantee it.”

“Hmm,” Aziraphale said, and now he had a creative look in his eye. That was a look which sparked danger, Crowley knew from long experience. “I wonder…” Aziraphale said, staring off into the distance. “How about a wager?” 

“You want to gamble?” Crowley asked, delighted. 

“No,” Aziraphale said, “well, sort of. It could be like the early days, before the arrangement. When we were trying to tempt and thwart and foil one another.” 

“Before the arrangement?” Crowley said, something large and rough rising in his throat. 

“Of course, the logistics would be difficult,” Aziraphale was saying as if he hadn’t heard Crowley. “But I imagine we would be relatively safe in LA...I know Heaven doesn’t like to tread there and you’ve said Hell sees it as a waste of time given how everyone is pretty much damned already…” 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley waved a hand in front of the angel’s eyes. “What are you on about?” 

“How about an adventure?” Aziraphale asked. “A friendly competition?”

“Adventure? Who are you and what have you done with my angel?” Crowley asked, alarmed. “You like to sit at home and read books. You thought it was too much change when I bought you a new throw pillow for the couch in the bookshop!” 

“And it was a nice pillow,” Aziraphale said. “Once I got used to it. But you,” Aziraphale’s eyes clouded. “You get bored so easily dearest. And something’s been off with you since the Apocalypse. I think you miss it, all the tempting, the running around.” 

Crowley opened his mouth, then closed it again. Dearest. That had been new. Please say it again, he wanted to beg. But Aziraphale looked so unaccountably sad. And sad on his account no less, which wouldn’t do at all. 

“Maybe I do,” Crowley said carefully. “Miss it, that is.”

It wasn’t entirely a lie. The way they had been before, hurried meetings, always in secret, stolen time in the backroom of the bookshop, always looking over their shoulders. It had been awful, yes, but the clandestine, whispered nature of it all had been...almost romantic at times too. Crowley had wanted to tell Aziraphale...something for nearly a thousand years, but he hadn’t been able to and even if he had, Aziraphale couldn’t have said it back. All those years hiding from Heaven and Hell, he had imagined that one day, if he was free to say...that thing, then Aziraphale might very well also say it. Only now, now he was free, and he hadn’t said it and neither had Aziraphale and where did that leave them? Nostalgic for the good old days, he supposed, although Crowley was sure he would have laughed at himself ten years ago for calling those days good at all. 

“Well,” Aziraphale said. “That’s settled then. We just need to come up with a proper wager, that’s all.” 

“What’s settled?” Crowley asked, feeling he had lost the thread of the conversation entirely. 

“Next season of _Rose of Love_ you and I will get hired as producers,” Aziraphale said firmly. “It will be fun, like acting or putting on a magic show!” 

“Oh no,” Crowley groaned and put his head in his hands. 

“Anyway,” Aziraphale said, undeterred. “We’ll get ourselves hired as producers, then you’ll have all season to ensure that no one truly falls in love and that they all end up worse off, morally speaking, then they started. At the same time, I’ll try to make sure the contestants treat each other kindly and pursue relationships out of love.” 

Crowley narrowed his eyes at Aziraphale. “Ok,” he said, “Presuming it actually works to get hired on the show, which may take some serious pulling of strings by the way, how do I know you won’t cheat. You’re a being of love, you can just...make them fall in love, can’t you?”

“No, that’s not how it works at all!” Aziraphale said. “It’s like with temptations, you just give them the choice to be bad or good. You can’t make it happen. Love’s the same way. You give them the opportunity to feel, and then they either do...or they don’t.” Aziraphale fixed Crowley with an look that was far more serious than his tone implied. It was intense enough to make Crowley shiver. 

“Alright,” Crowley found himself agreeing. “What do we consider a win?”

“If even one couple makes it out of the season _truly_ in love, then I’ll win,” Aziraphale said. “Anything less than that and you win. How does that sound?” 

“Sounds like Sodom and Gomorrah, but with less smiting,” Crowley said. Aziraphale pursed his lips. “Fine,” Crowley sighed. “It sounds fine. What do I get if I win?” 

“I’ll…” Aziraphale cast around. “I’ll let you teach me how to drive.” 

Crowley grinned wickedly. Oh, that could be fun. “Just not in the Bentley,” he said. “She still hasn’t recovered from the trauma of being reduced to ashes. I’m not sure she would survive driving lessons with you.” 

“Fine,” Aziraphale said. “Now, if I win...I think you should have to read a book. No, make that ten books.” 

“Ok,” Crowley said. “But I choose at least five of them.”

“Hmm, I’ll have to think carefully about my five then,” Aziraphale said, smiling. Even his eyes were smiling. Ugh, Crowley thought. It’s not fair at all. Why of all beings on this planet did I have to go fall in--

“I wouldn’t worry too much about it,” he said out loud. “You’ll just be disappointed when I don’t end up reading them.” 

“So, it’s a deal then?” Aziraphale asked hopefully. 

“Why not. Not like there’s anything better to do,” Crowley said. “Deal.” 

They shook on it. It was, Crowley realized, the first time they had held hands since they body swap. Aziraphale’s palm was warm under his, skin gorgeously soft. Crowley did not want to let go. Neither, it seemed, did Aziraphale. The moment dragged on. A slow heat suffused Crowley’s spine. 

“Well,” Aziraphale said, breaking the contact first. “May the best—or worst I suppose—supernatural entity win.”


	2. Jessica & Becky & Karen & Karen & Karen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The bacherlorettes ship it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: brief mention of slutshaming, some girl on girl bullying. #piegate as a stand-in for #champagnegate
> 
> I don't know how much of an overlap there is between Good Omens fandom and Bachelor Nation, but if you are a part of that very small sliver of the venn diagram this one's for you. Any resemblance to current or former Bachelor contestants is accidental.

Becky B. smiled across from the redheaded producer, her flawless white teeth reflected in his sunglasses and the lens of the camera hovering behind him. It was only week two of _Rose of Love_ but she felt confident. Thought she might be a front runner even. 

“I’m Crowley,” the producer said. “We’re just going to talk, alright? Forget the cameras are even here.” 

“Alright,” Becky B. said, feeling tremendously at ease. She almost did forget the cameras were there for a second! She felt like she could tell this redheaded producer anything. 

“How did it make you feel to see Parker kissing Jessica M. today?” Crowley asked. Becky B. frowned. She didn’t want to think about that. 

“It made--”

“Seeing Parker kissing Jessica M. made me…” Crowley prompted again. 

“Seeing Parker kissing Jessica M. made me...feel angry?” Becky B. guessed. As she said it, she knew suddenly, that it was true. She was absolutely livid.

“Did seeing Parker kissing Jessica M. make you feel angry that she’s trying to steal him from you?” Crowley asked. 

“Seeing Parker kissing Jessica M. made me feel angry that she’s trying to steal him from me,” Becky B. said, her smile faltering. “We have such a connection...I thought. But then I saw him kissing...kissing...Jessica M.” 

“How do you feel about Jessica M. now?” Crowley prodded gently. 

“I think Jessica M. is a fake and she’s using him to get attention,” Becky B. said, pretty face twisting with rage. “Parker deserves so much better than her.”

“Cut!” yelled a producer in the background. “Fantastic, as always Crowley. We can definitely use that for a sound bite at least.” 

“Happy to help,” Crowley got up and sauntered away towards the edge of the room. 

Immediately, Becky B. felt hot under the lights of the set and self-conscious. She ought not have said that about Jessica M. But it was so hard, keeping all these feelings bottled up inside, not being able to leave the house...

“Did you really mean all that about Jessica M.?” asked a quiet, kind voice next to Becky B’s ear. She whirled around. She hadn’t even seen the blond producer come up behind her. 

Becky B. hesitated. “Honestly, no,” she said. “No, not at all. It’s just...thinking about her...kissing him, you know?”

“It must be really hard,” said the blond producer. “I can’t even imagine. But it’s not Jessica M.’s fault, is it?” 

“Jessica M. is nice, really,” Becky said, starting to cry. “It’s not her fault either that we’re dating the same guy.”

“There, there dear.” The blonde producer patted her back and handed over a lovely old fashioned handkerchief for her to blow her nose. “I’m Aziraphale by the way. You can come to me if there’s anything you need. Anything at all.” 

She believed him. She really did. “Thanks, Aziraphale,” she said, trying to hand back the handkerchief. 

“Keep it my dear,” he said, pushing her hand away gently. His voice sounded distant. She looked up and followed his gaze to where the red haired man was leaning against the far wall.

****

They were everywhere, Mary Michael thought. Perhaps the other girls hadn’t noticed, but she couldn’t stop thinking about it. They were distracting her from her growing connection with Parker. The skinny one with the red hair and sunglasses who looked like a roadie for a mediocre rock band and his improbable blond friend with the bowties. Or, rather, more-than-friend, from the way they stood too close and glanced at one another when they thought no one was looking. 

And the way they worked was uncanny too. Mary Michael would have just a sliver of an uncharitable thought about one of the other girls and then the red headed one would be by her side immediately, encouraging her as if he could read her mind. And just when she had decided to give in to her nasty impulses, to call, for instance, Kelsey A. the raging, manipulative, liar she was, the blond one swooped in and encouraged her not to. It was like having a personal angel and demon sitting on her shoulders at all times. It was exhausting is what it was. 

Once she started noticing it, she couldn’t stop seeing it. The blond one encouraged one of the girls who came from somewhere in the South to home bake a key lime pie for Parker. She even overheard him telling her to bake it with love. Then, once it was all baked and set up on the patio, the redhead whispered in another girl’s ear and off she went to eat the pie with Parker while the first girl was in the bathroom. The ensuing mess from that one alone probably caused a season’s worth of drama, or at least enough to fill a few episodes of airtime. 

The blond one set up a one on one date where Parker took Mary Michael to his hometown and they wandered the halls of his high school before going to have dinner with his family. The redhead set up a group date where Mary Michael and three other girls had to perform in a Jazz ensemble in front of a panel of judges who were all Parker’s ex-girlfriends.

The blond one designed a group date to an old bookshop where each one of them picked out a volume of poetry to give to Parker. The redhead designed a group date that combined pole dance lessons with WrestleMania. 

The blond one told them to share their hearts with Parker. The redhead heavily implied that Parker would only be interested in them if they shared something else. 

On and on it went. And through it all, they looked at one another like...like...like Mary Michael hoped Parker might someday look at her. It seemed they thought they were being subtle about the angel and devil routine, but they absolutely weren’t. And if they thought they were being subtle about the other thing, well...

****

“How did you feel when you heard that Parker had given his Rose of Love to Becky B.?” Crowley asked Jessica M. several weeks later, cameras hovering behind him, trained on her face. 

“When Parker gave his Rose of Love to Becky B. I felt worried,” Jessica M. said miserably. 

“Mmh,” Crowley said softly. “Yeah, I can understand that. When he gave his Rose of Love to Becky B., did it make you feel worried that Parker might not love you the way you already love him?” Crowley asked. 

In the background, there was the sound of glass shattering. Aziraphale who was cleaning up the banquet table had dropped a plate.

“When Parker gave his Rose of Love to Becky B., it made me feel worried that he might not love me the way I already love him,” Jessica M. said, and burst into tears. 

“Cut,” someone shouted. “Great interview! Well done Mr. Crowley. We’re definitely going to use a bunch of this in the promos.” 

But Crowley had already stalked away. 

In the ensuing bustle of shifting cameras and unplugging Jessica M.’s microphone, and changing the lighting for the next interview, Aziraphale quietly insinuated himself by Jessica M.’s chair. Wordlessly he handed her a cream colored handkerchief. She buried her face in it gratefully. 

“There, there,” Aziraphale said, patting her back gingerly. “You really care about Parker,” Aziraphale said soothingly. “He’s so important to you. But he’s got to be generous with his time. You wouldn’t love him if he wasn’t so caring and generous.” 

“That’s true,” Jessica M., murmured. “It’s just hard, you know...feeling that way about someone and not being able to tell them, because the producers don’t want you to say the L word too soon, you know? And being worried that they don’t feel that way about you…” 

Aziraphale’s hand suddenly stopped its motion. Jessica M. looked up at him quizzically through her tears.

“I know,” Aziraphale said, moving his hand in slow circles again. “I know Jessie, I know.” Jessica M. leaned into the touch. Only her mom called her Jessie, yet somehow, Aziraphale had known that was the name she needed to hear now. She felt light, comfortable, happy again. She felt sure that love would happen for her, but with sudden clarity, realized that she was not in love with Parker. 

“I have to go,” she said suddenly. 

“Oh?” Aziraphale asked, but not as if he were surprised. 

“Yeah,” Jessie said, still suffused with newfound confidence. “I don’t think I’m going to find love here. But I think it’s out there for me. I can feel it. I don’t want to waste Parker’s time anymore. Not when I know it’s not the real thing.” 

****

Karen D was drunk. And hot. And tired. This party was dragging on and on and she just needed to find a place to sleep. Just a cat nap. Twenty minutes tops. She had to be strategic though. If the producers saw her asleep upstairs, she was sure a camera would follow her up, they would frame it as her being bored of the cocktail party. She would get a bad edit. A bad edit would be the worst. She was already in talks with three fast fashion companies for sponsorships. Her growing brand could not survive a bad edit. 

She scanned the room carefully. Beautiful women in beautiful dresses milled about in varying states of drunkenness, but she didn’t see any flash of red hair. Good. She had to be especially careful of the producer with red hair. He seemed to have an eye out for any weakness. If she slept upstairs, he would be the one to find her, she knew. 

Cautiously, she slunk towards a half open closet door. Inside appeared to be not much more than a jumble of technical equipment as well as a few monitors showing several angles of the cocktail party outside. The audio was on, but low, so she could barely hear what the girls were saying. A perfect place for sleeping. Karen D. shut the door of the closet behind her, toed off her high heels, and gingerly began rearranging the folds of her dress so she could lie on the floor without getting it all wrinkled. 

Suddenly, clear as day, a man’s voice spoke almost directly in her ear. She nearly jumped in shock, then breathed a sigh of relief. The voice was coming from a headset hanging right next to her on the wall. The producers must be putting away the shooting equipment from the day without realizing one of the microphones was on and the audio was still transmitting. 

“I don’t see what you’re getting out of this whole situation, frankly.” That cultured, accented, vaguely upper class voice continued. It had to be the kindly blonde haired producer. His name was something biblical, Karen D. thought. Aziraphale maybe? “If I’m right and they do develop real feelings, It’s not as if you can-- well.” Aziraphale broke off. 

“Not as if I can what?” a second accented voice growled. The scary redhead then. No surprises there. The way they moved about the house together it was like they were attached at the hip. 

“Oh, Crowley.” There was a clanking sound as if one of the producers had dropped a piece of equipment. “--drat it-- It’s not as if you can feel love Crowley.” 

“Can’t feel love?” the other’s tone had turned dangerous. Aziraphale continued on as if the temperature hadn’t just dropped 30 degrees in their conversation. 

“Yes, well, of course, I don’t hold it against you. Just your nature I suppose--”

“My nature.” came the flat reply. 

“Well, yes, rather.” 

“My nature, hm, yes, right, well.”

“Oh Crowley, don’t get snippy with me like that.”

“Just my nature, isn’t it?” Crowley said, then there was a squealing sound over the headset. Presumably he had dropped the mic he was holding onto the floor. This theory was confirmed seconds later when Karen D. saw Crowley appear on the main monitor in the living room, take Karen H by the hand and pull her into the corner. Crowley whispered into her ear and then left the room, door banging shut behind him. The odd thing was, Karen D. didn’t think anyone else had noticed this interruption, not even the cameraman who hadn’t even bothered to scold Crowley for walking straight through the shot. 

While Karen D. was puzzling over what had just happened, she nearly missed Karen H.’s expression form into one of righteous fury. Karen H. moved rapidly across the room, grabbed a full glass of champagne from the table, and without missing a beat, flung it in Karen A.’s face. “You bitch,” Karen H. screamed, loud enough to be heard over the tinny audio of the monitor. “You’re still seeing Dylan, you snuck out of the house and slept with him last night. You cheater, you slu--” 

“Oh my GOD, Karen,” screamed Karen A., wiping champagne off her face. “You wanna go there? I saw Danny from last season sliding into your DM’s.” 

The other girls’ voices started up, raised in a shrill cacophony, camera operators swooping around them like buzzards at the site of a particularly grizzly roadkill. Karen D. leaned in, watching the monitor closely when the door banged open behind her and she leapt about a foot in the air.

It was Crowley, dark glasses firmly in place, color high on his cheeks. “Oi,” he said, “what are you doing back here? You can’t come in here!”

“Sorry,” Karen said. “So sorry, I was just looking for a place to sleep for a bit. It’s a long night.” 

Crowley stared at her through the sunglasses. “If you’re gonna sleep, sleep upstairs in the bedrooms,” he said finally.

“If I sleep up there, a cameraman will come up and take a video of me sleeping and they’ll edit it to look like I don’t care about Parker,” Karen protested. 

“That sounds like a you problem,” Crowley said darkly. “Now scram. Hang out with the other Karens.” 

Karen chanced a glance at the monitor. At this point it looked like Becky G. was physically restraining Karen A. from attacking Karen H. “No thanks,” she said. 

“Well, you can’t be here,” Crowley said, and started plugging lapel mics into to the wall outlet to charge. His voice was steady, but his hands were shaking so badly that he had to try three times to get them plugged in. Oh, thought Karen, an understanding forming about the odd snippet of conversation she had overheard. Oh, I’m so sorry. 

“I’ll just...go then,” Karen said. 

“Yep,” Crowley was not looking at her. 

Karen edged out of the room and fled upstairs to freshen up. Only when she was facing a corner that she knew was hidden from the angle of the house cameras did Karen remove the headset she had taken from the wall and secreted in the folds of her dress. Karen had taken it thinking it might help her listen in on production meetings, stay one step ahead of all the date plans, and get a leg up on the competition. 

She reached up to turn it off to conserve battery, when she caught what sounded at first like static. She looped the headphones over her ears and it resolved into the quiet sound of a man weeping. The mic on the floor of the room where Aziraphale was putting away equipment was apparently still transmitting. Well then, Karen thought, revising some of her assumptions about Crowley’s situation, then she turned the headset off. She hadn’t meant to listen in on the conversation in the first place and certainly wasn’t going to get involved in this mess. She did hope that Crowley and the kindly British producer worked it out though, whatever it was. 

****

“There’s something weird about those producers,” Jessica M. said to Karen D. as she packed up her bags the next morning. She didn’t have to say which producers. They all knew.

“I think they’re fucking,” Mary Michael said from where she was sprawled on her bed. 

“I think they’re not, and that’s the problem,” said Becky B., who was friendly with Jessica M. again now that they had established, she wasn’t a threat. 

Karen D. chewed on her lip. “I think it’s more serious than that,” she said finally. “I think they love each other—God only knows why—and neither one wants to be the first to say it.”

“Whatever it is,” Jessica M. said, “y’all had better fix it, because it’s making Aziraphale miserable and Crowley vicious. This house will tear itself apart by Tuesday if Crowley keeps on the way he’s been and Aziraphale is too mopey to do anything about it.”

“True that,” Becky B.

“Hmm,” Karen D. said, the beginnings of an idea forming in her mind.

****

The tension didn’t seem to have dissipated overnight. The redheaded and blond producers stood very close to one another at the craft services table, conferring in angry, whispered voices. 

“Now all the Karens hate one another,” Karen D. caught as she passed by to get a bagel. “I hope you’re happy.”

“Very,” Crowley hissed back icily. “Happiest I’ve ever been.”

“Jessica M. is quitting the show to find true love,” Aziraphale said. “That’s one for my corner.” 

“Don’t gloat,” Crowley muttered. “It’s a bad look on you angel.” 

Angel, now that was interesting, Karen D. thought as she returned to her seat. 

In a blink, Crowley was across the room, whispering something in Caroline’s ear. 

“Oh, Karen,” Caroline turned to her. “Turquoise isn’t really your color is it? I hope you’re not going to wear that dress all day.” 

Karen D. knew she was being manipulated, but in that moment she didn’t care. She stood up from the table and flounced upstairs, barely holding back a flood of tears as the cameras followed close behind. She slammed the door in the face of the cameraman. Somehow, she wasn’t surprised when not ten minutes later, a knock sounded. Aziraphale to smooth things over she was sure. 

“Whatever sick game you and your boyfriend are playing, you can stop playing it,” Karen shouted, and threw a pillow at the door.

“Um…can I come in?” It wasn’t Aziraphale after all, but Crowley. Now that was a surprise. He sounded lost and a little sad. Karen relented. 

“Fine,” she said. “But we’re talking about your problems, not mine.” 

He came in and shut the door behind him, sitting down cross legged on the floor. 

“Sorry,” he said, with the air of someone who never really apologized and didn’t quite know how to do it. “Err…about Caroline being nasty about your dress. I told her you were really sensitive about how your complexion goes with blue hues after the incident at your sixteenth birthday party.”

“How do you know about that?” Karen asked.

“It’s…never mind.” Crowley waved a hand. “I just…felt bad. Wanted to say sorry. It’s good TV alright. It’s not personal.”

Karen fixed him with a glare. “I think it’s personal. It’s just not about me is all.”

“I…” Crowley gaped at her. She wished he would take his sunglasses off. She was sure he had quite expressive eyes. “Fine,” he said eventually. “It’s not about you.”

“You know, he really likes you,” Karen said, cursing herself for getting involved. “Like, really, really likes you.”

“You don’t understand anything about it,” Crowley snapped.

“You’re right,” Karen said, she couldn’t deny it. They were each weird on their own but thinking about them together was even weirder. “I don’t understand much of it, but I think you’re too close to it. There are some things you can’t even see. Like how much he likes you.”

Crowley passed a hand under his glasses, swift enough that Karen could have blinked and missed it. “You…you think?” he asked.

“I know,” she said firmly. “Now, I can help you, just listen to this…”

****  
Downstairs, Becky B. was finishing up an interview with Aziraphale. “I’m going to take him home to meet my family,” she said dreamily. “I can finally say it now. I’m in love. It feels great to be able to let it out. I’ve felt it for a while now, but to tell him, to finally tell him…” Becky B. trailed off. Across from her, Aziraphale was crying silently.

“Hey,” she said, alarmed. “Hey, are you…is everything ok?”

“Cut,” called a producer irritably. “Everyone take five. Aziraphale, you get yourself together. We’ve still got four more interviews to go.”

The cameramen wandered off towards the craft services table. Becky got up from her seat and crouched next to Aziraphale. She handed him the handkerchief he had given her earlier in the season and he took it with a watery smile.

“I thought this would be fun,” Aziraphale said out of nowhere. “I thought this would help, you know. He’s seemed so out of sorts since...well, since we both had something of a trying experience a few years ago. I thought this might cheer him up, but he’s miserable. I don’t even think he likes tempting anymore. Not really.” 

Some of that went over Becky’s head, but she thought she got the main idea pretty well. “You seem pretty miserable too,” Becky pointed out. 

Aziraphale sighed heavily. “It’s all this talk of love,” he said. “I thought I would enjoy it, but it just makes me wish--” he cut himself off. 

“Makes you wish?” Becky prompted.

“Well,” Aziraphale said, eyes bright. “It’s not important. Why don’t we talk about your strategy for the next date?”

“Have you ever told him how you feel?” Becky asked bluntly.

Aziraphale blinked at her. “Not…not in words, no. For a long time, we…couldn’t you understand…”

“Ah,” Becky said. “I do understand. I have a gay uncle. He said it was really hard in the 80s and 90s with homophobia.”

“Homophobia,” Aziraphale said slowly. “Right, yes.”

“But now it’s a different world,” Becky said. “It’s…you don’t have to be secretive anymore, right?”

“No,” Aziraphale said slowly, “we don’t. But then why hasn’t he—”

“Maybe it takes time, you know?” Becky said. “Maybe you’re expecting him to go too fast.”

“Expecting him to go too fast,” Aziraphale let out a wild laugh that sounded more like a sob.

“Listen,” Becky said, “he really likes you too. I know it. You just have to get to a place where you’re both comfortable saying it. Here’s what we’re going to do…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot stress enough how much I did not edit this, it just emerged out of some kind of fever dream. Enjoy, but do not judge me too harshly if it is totally unreadable! 
> 
> Before I thought it was going to be 3 chapters, with the middle one being super long. Guess now we're going for 2 long chapters in the middle instead of one, so buckle up. 
> 
> Likely update will be weekend of 1/26


	3. On Significant Dates in the 1880s, Using Proper Grammar, and Taking the Risk to Fall in Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale, will you accept this rose?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crowley sticks to the script. Horsebackriding, hot air balloon rides, and emotional meltdowns ensue. 
> 
> CW: mild homophobia

“...well?” Crowley trailed off, biting his lip and reaching up to adjust his sunglasses. 

“Um…” Karen said. “It’s...um...quite a lot you know.” 

“Too much?” Crowley asked quickly. 

“Just...a lot,” Karen said. “I mean, that stuff about the Garden of Eden and all the biblical references, and then you just spent almost ten minutes talking about May 3rd of 1883?” 

“I told you,” Crowley said. “It’s an inside joke.” 

“Hell of an inside joke,” Karen said.

Crowley started to laugh. He couldn’t help it. He tried to cover it up with a cough. “No, it’s not,” he managed. 

Karen looked at him for a long time. “Whatever,” she said finally. “You and Aziraphale are clearly made for each other. You are without a doubt the weirdest two people I have ever met. But, I actually do want you to go off and do your absurd freak thing together, you know? In order for that to happen, though, you absolutely can’t tell him what you just told me.” 

“I can’t?” Crowley asked.

“No!” Karen huffed at him. “Listen, there’s a reason _Rose of Love_ is so popular.” 

“Because every week beautiful people make each other miserable and cry over incredibly petty things?” Crowley suggested. 

“No,” Karen said again. “Well, yes, but that’s not the point. It’s popular because people like routine. They like a storyline with all the right beats. They like knowing there’s a _script_.” 

“So, you’re saying,” Crowley said slowly. “I should stick to the script?” 

“That’s what I’m doing,” Karen shrugged. “I’m still here.” 

“You’re still here because I told Parker that blonds perform better than brunettes with the ratings,” Crowley snapped. 

“So what,” Karen said. “Maybe you told Parker to keep me around, but Parker still likes me. He likes me because I say the right things in the right order. That’s what you’ve got to do with your man. Work up to the big stuff. You can’t go wrong.” 

****

The problem was, Crowley thought, he could go wrong. The first mistake had been horses. He and Aziraphale were barely back on speaking terms again when the company that production had booked months ago for a Couple’s Colorado Cowboy package called to say all their stock were inexplicably lame. Aziraphale shot a dirty look at Crowley across the table, but just Crowley shrugged.

“Are you sure this wasn’t demonic interference?” Aziraphale asked as they trudged through a paddock that smelled alarmingly like the 14th century.

“Not _my_ demonic interference, that’s for sure,” Crowley said. “Pretty sure all horses are at least a quarter demon though, so who really knows.” 

“This way!” A tall man in a cowboy hat shouted, waving them over. “I’m Bob, I think we spoke on the phone?” 

“You mentioned you could accommodate a couple’s package at short notice?” Aziraphale asked, picking his way across the manure strewn mud. 

“Oh,” Bob looked them over. “I didn’t realize it was you that called about--” he shifted uneasily. He was, Crowley noticed with a shudder, wearing a pair of leather chaps painted to look like the American flag. “Well,” Bob broke into a sudden smile, and held out a chapped hand. “We don’t usually get couples like you two. I’m sorry for my...I was just surprised, that’s all. Of course, we can accommodate you.” 

Aziraphale shook the offered hand and shot Crowley a look over the Bob’s shoulder that seemed to beg for rescue. But Crowley was sensing an opportunity. “Thanks so much,” he said. “It means a lot. You know the first place we called said they didn’t take people like...us.” 

“Oh,” Bob rubbed the back of his head awkwardly, looking like he would rather be talking about anything else. “I’m so sorry...but, um...love is love, right?” 

Aziraphale blanched and started to stammer out something that sounded an awful lot like a denial. 

“Yep,” Crowley cut in smoothly. “So, you said something about a deluxe package, champagne included?” 

After this it was a flurry of getting dressed in outrageous riding outfits (“sorry, we usually just put the cow gals in the white chaps with tassels and the cowboys the rugged leather ones, but I guess I could get y’all another pair of the cowboy chaps,” “oh, no need,” Crowley grinned maniacally, already zipping up the white leather ), introduced to their mounts (“she’s really such a sweet girl, a little bitey though so just stay away from--oh, well, that was just a little nip then, sorry about that”), and loaded up with champagne in a tiny saddlebag, (“lets pack an extra bottle please,” Aziraphale had said, looking grave). 

The sun was setting as they rode towards the mountains, Bob a respectful thirty paces back on his own horse, giving them privacy. It really was a lovely sunset, just as good as the brochures had suggested. 

“Why didn’t you say anything,” Aziraphale asked softly after they had been riding for a few minutes. “We’re supposed to be booking this place for _another_ couple, not for us.”

“Urg,” Crowley said, trying and failing to get his mount to stop eating the grass at the side of the trail. After thirty seconds of valiant but unsuccessful struggle, Crowley’s mare suddenly became alarmed that Aziraphale’s gelding was too far ahead of her. She raised her head and trotted to catch up. Crowley clung on like a limpet and moaned weakly, wishing desperately for the comfort of his Bentley. Had riding somehow gotten _worse_ in the past hundred years? 

“Why didn’t you say anything,” Crowley panted once his horse had finally caught up. 

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale said, looking far more prim and proper on his perfectly behaved horse than he had any right to. “I was going to, and then you made it sound like we had been…” he paused, and Crowley’s heart beat wildly. _Been what_ he wanted to ask. “Been discriminated against,” Aziraphale finished. “And then, it just seemed, well, rude, not to take the poor man up on his offer. Seeing as he’s fighting so hard against his homophobic upbringing. His father was terrible, I took just a little peek into his mind and it was sadly obvious. But now he’s trying to be welcoming even though we make him uncomfortable. It’s rather lovely, seeing him try to be a better person.” 

“Well,” Crowley said, not about to admit that he had been thinking only of how romantic it would be to try out the couple’s package, “that’s the beauty of free will, isn’t it? I gave him a choice to be nasty or to nice. Not my fault he chose nice, although--” Crowley’s horse put her head down again and Crowley yanked it up “--I could do without the horses next time. Or every time. From now until eternity.” 

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, something clearing in his expression. When his eyes met Crowley’s, some of the warmth had gone out of them. “I see. It was a temptation. That’s why you didn’t correct him when he thought we--” 

“I, er--” Crowley said, and for the immortal life of him didn’t know what he was going to say next. 

“Champagne stop is here!” Bob shouted out from behind them. 

When his two feet were both back on solid ground, Crowley felt some of his composure come back to him. 

“Come over here,” Crowley steered Aziraphale onto a stone outcropping, pushing a flute of champagne into his hand. In front of them, the sun sank gloriously over evergreens and sweeping plains. “S’nice isn’t it.” 

Aziraphale looked at him, eyes cautious and pale in the faint light. “Yes,” he said slowly. “Yes, I suppose it is.” 

“Should we...er...toast?” Crowley asked. 

“What a lovely idea,” Aziraphale smiled at Crowley and Crowley, powerless in the face of that radiance, smiled back. 

“To...um, us,” he said quietly, tipping his glass against Aziraphale’s. While the glasses had started out plastic, Crowley had expected them to be glass and so they were. They clinked satisfyingly. 

“To us,” Aziraphale said equally quietly, something fervent and longing in his tone. They were standing very close. The sunset lit up Aziraphale’s hair almost the way his halo had, back when they were still the fashion for angels. If Crowley leaned in--

Aziraphale wasn’t saying anything. Crowley edged his face a millimeter closer. 

“You know, I--” Crowley said at the same time as Aziraphale said, “I wanted to--” 

They stared at one another in the gloom and abruptly Crowley lost his nerve. “You know I think this should do quite nicely for Parker and Caroline’s date,” he said, swallowing. 

“What,” Aziraphale said. 

“Parker and Caroline, the show. We’ll ask Bob if he can book another ride when we get back.” 

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, and leaned all the way back out of Crowley’s personal space. “The show, right. How could I have forgotten. That’s the whole purpose of this excursion after all!” He let out a nervous laugh. 

They were silent on the ride back, but a tense sort of silence. Aziraphale seemed to be stealing himself to say something. Crowley waited for the blow to fall. They were almost back at the barn and Aziraphale still hadn’t spoken. All at once, Aziraphale took a deep breath and said in a rush, “I wanted to tell you that, well, I...it has come to my attention that.” Aziraphale took another deep breath. “Oh, Crowley,” he said, dropping the reins entirely to run his hands through his hair. His frustratingly obedient horse stopped anyway. Crowley’s horse on the other hand, danced around in little circles as Crowley waited to hear what it was Aziraphale had to say. 

“Oh, would you take off those glasses!” Aziraphale snapped finally, wringing his hands. “I’m afraid I can’t say it with you wearing them. It doesn’t feel right.”

“Alright, angel, sure.” Crowley gulped and took them off and then, mostly metaphorically, all hell broke loose. 

Later, Bob was extremely apologetic. “I’m not sure what spooked them like that,” he kept saying, as he held a cold compress to Aziraphale’s head and Crowley winced, gingerly trying to put weight on his ankle. “You’re sure you two didn’t see a coyote or anything like that?” 

“Yeah, coyote, must have been,” Crowley ground out, and then limped off to the car to let Aziraphale deal with the rest of Bob’s apologies. 

****

So, the horses were a no. Crowley didn’t have much more success with the hot air balloon, or the surfing lessons, mostly because he hadn’t been able to manipulate either of those activities so that he and Aziraphale were able to do them alone. Sandwiched between Parker on one side and Alison (with one L not to be confused with Allison) on the other, didn’t leave much room for romance, not to mention the balloon operator and the cameramen. Neither did the icy waters of the Pacific, where Crowley learned that demons chill quickly, even if they are wearing a wetsuit, and that dolphins are much more fun in theory than in practice. 

All in all, it was going horribly. 

The worst part was that Crowley was so busy with his own attempts at romance that he kept forgetting that he was meant to be sabotaging those of everyone else in the house. While Crowley was trying, unsuccessfully, to telegraph to Aziraphale that he would like to hold his hand on the beach, Parker and Olivia were making out in the ocean behind his back and, what was worse, connecting about their neglectful childhoods on a deep emotional level. 

Without Crowley’s nefarious influences, the girls in the house started to warm up to one another. He walked into the house to do interviews one day only to see two of them doing each other’s makeup, and not even in a malicious passive aggressive way. The only consolation was that Aziraphale seemed equally, if not more, distracted. By what Crowley had no idea. Aziraphale had tried to say something a few times, once when they were bobbing out past the break, waiting for another wave to come in, and then again, just the other day, after a production meeting, when Crowley was coming up the stairs and Aziraphale was coming down. 

Each time they had been interrupted, but Crowley knew Aziraphale would not be put off forever. Perhaps Aziraphale wanted to call an end to their game, this wager about tempting and thwarting and go back to London? Perhaps he missed his books? Well, fine, Crowley was over the game anyway. He had stopped playing entirely. But he still didn’t want to give Aziraphale the chance to say they should go back to England. Now he was playing a different game, with very different stakes, and if they went back to London now, he wasn’t sure he would ever find the courage to see it through to the end. 

****

Karen D. got the next date card. She hadn’t had one in a while and selfishly, Crowley wanted to keep her around. Not that her advice was helpful in the least. 

“Tell him you’re feeling a connection,” she said, as she applied her mascara for the date and Crowley dithered. “Or, better yet, how about you take him for a romantic dinner?” 

“We’ve been going out for romantic dinners since 42 AD,” Crowley said miserably. “He doesn’t take the hint.” 

“Huh,” Karen D. paused in her makeup application. “You really are an odd fish, aren’t you? Another inside joke I guess.” 

“Sure,” Crowley said hollowly. 

“What if you give him a rose?” Karen D. suggested. 

“You’re not serious.” 

“I am though,” Karen said. “I’ve got another idea for you actually. I think this is the one. It’s really gonna help both of us get ahead.” 

****

Crowley waited anxiously off to the side of a lovely secluded patio in Tuscany. There was a dinner for two set on a rustic table overlooking a verdant valley. The air smelled of wet earth and Spring flowers. The candles on the dinner table shone in the gloaming. It was, in a word, perfect. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, appearing next to him. “Crowley, I...I’ve been trying to say.” His voice was uncertain and tremulous. “Would you take off your glasses?”

Crowley reached a hand to his face, but just then another producer rushed up. “Have you seen Karen D and Parker?” she asked frantically. 

“No?” Aziraphale said, sounding put out at being interrupted. 

“They were supposed to be at dinner thirty minutes ago! I think they ditched the cameras!” 

“Oh, what a shame that would be,” Crowley said.

The producer narrowed her eyes and rounded on Crowley. “What did you do?” 

“Oh, I just suggested that in order to deepen their connection, it might be nice to have some time away from the cameras,” Crowley said, inspecting his nails. “It’s possible I also mentioned a particularly deserted path down into town, as well as the name of a Zagat rated restaurant. Oh, and the location of a production expense account credit card.” 

“Crowley!” the producer gasped, pulling at her hair. 

“Relax,” Crowley said, even as the knot of anxiety pulled even tighter in his own stomach as the prospect of a romantic dinner with Aziraphale swam closer and closer into focus. “This kind of thing is great for ratings. Get a few cameramen, do some shaky cam on the path, send the host to try to find them in the restaurant. A little editing and it’s going to kill, believe me.”

“I can’t believe you,” the producer hissed at him. As a much more accomplished hisser himself, Crowley was unimpressed. “You’re right,” she continued, “and we both know it. But I’m still gonna strangle you once I’ve found and returned Parker to the hotel.” She rushed away. 

Now it was only Crowley and Aziraphale on the patio. The insects chirped in the Spring evening. 

“Should we go with her?” Aziraphale asked. “Go look for Parker and Karen?” 

“Nah,” Crowley said. His throat felt tight. Aziraphale was just so solid and warm and _there_ in front of him. Was this what a panic attack felt like? Was this what heaven had felt like? It was so long ago that he’d been welcome there, he almost couldn’t remember.

“There’s good food here,” Crowley said, mouth running on autopilot. “It’s getting cold.”

“I’d hate to see it go to waste,” Aziraphale agreed. He seemed almost breathless. 

“Yeah,” Crowley said. 

They sat down, chairs scraping loudly on the stone. The food was just as good as it looked, although the wine required a stern glare from Crowley before he deemed it a fit vintage for sharing with the angel. 

“It’s not the Ritz,” Crowley said eventually. “But I hope it’s alright.” 

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale murmured. His mouth looked so soft in the candlelight. It made Crowley want to weep. “Crowley, this is lovely. Thank you.” 

“Don’t--” Crowley started, but the protest died in his throat as Aziraphale raised a hand. 

“I know you set this up for me Crowley,” Aziraphale said. “I know you tempted Karen to run away with Parker and that you’ve used demonic wiles to convince the serving staff that we’re a gorgeous twenty something heterosexual couple rather than two middle aged man shaped creatures.” 

“Yeah,” Crowley said, mouth very dry. 

“It’s lovely,” Aziraphale said, sighing. “I won’t hear you say otherwise. It’s as nice as the Ritz, but rather like a picnic, I think…” Aziraphale trailed off. “...do you, think so?” he finished softly. It felt to Crowley like Aziraphale might be asking something else entirely. Hope flamed up like a sword in Crowley’s chest. 

“The thing is,” Crowley said, swallowing hard, trying to remember Karen’s advice. Stick to the script. Don’t scare him off. “The thing is, I feel like I’m definitely falling for you...more and more every day.” 

“Falling for me?” Aziraphale’s nose scrunched up in confusion. It would be adorable if Crowley didn’t feel like he was going to be sick from nerves. “Forgive me for being indelicate my dear, but haven’t you already, um, as it were, fallen?” Aziraphale paused. “Or, did you mean in a different way?” 

“In,” Crowley cleared his throat. “In a different way,” he managed. 

“Really?” Aziraphale breathed out. 

“Yeah,” Crowley was vibrating, quite literally, on a molecular level. He didn’t want to mess this up. He couldn’t. It was worth too much. “It’s just...so beautiful here in, erm, Umbria?” Crowley hazarded. His recollection of not only the production schedule, but also the current filming location had completely dissipated under the blue heat of Aziraphale’s gaze. But Karen had been very instant that talking about the location helped. It eased the other person into it, she said. “You’re so beautiful,” Crowley blurted out. Oh no, that had not been in the script. 

“I...” Aziraphale said, seemingly at a loss for words for the first time in his long existence. 

“I usually have a really hard time opening up to people,” Crowley said, “or demons or angels or whatever,” he amended. “You get my point. But with you. It’s just. Our connection is so strong.” 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered. “Crowley, I want you to know, I--” 

But Crowley had to get this out. If he didn’t say it now, he would lose his nerve. 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said, reaching down with trembling fingers to pick up the long stemmed flower that lay on the table between them. “Aziraphale, will you accept this rose?” 

The joyous warmth that had been suffusing Aziraphale’s face suddenly snapped off like someone had flipped a light switch. “What,” Aziraphale said. 

“Er...it’s a flower?” Crowley offered, trying not to panic. “I want to give it to you?”

“What the fuck, Crowley!” Aziraphale stood, pushing his chair back with a horrible screeching noise on the stone. “I thought, for a second I thought--” 

Crowley was absolutely stunned into silence. He gaped at Aziraphale. In six thousand years he had never once heard the angel swear.

“It doesn’t matter anyway,” Aziraphale said, ice cold. “If all you want to do is joke at my expense. Wind me up, put me through exactly what we’ve been putting the girls through. I should have recognized it right away from how you were talking. They all say the same fucking cliché things to one another. I guess you thought it would be funny to say them to me.” 

“No...” Crowley tried to say, but his mouth still wasn’t working properly. 

“Enough, Crowley,” Aziraphale’s eyes flicked down to Crowley’s lips, up again to his eyes, then away. “Why does everything have to be a game to you?” 

This was like the bandstand all over again, this was worse. Crowley felt like someone had put him through the garbage disposal. “I..” he said. 

“You’re a demon I suppose,” Aziraphale said, cold, clipped, icy. “I guess it wasn’t enough to tempt the humans. I guess you had to tempt me too. Well, it worked. It’s been working, for six thousand years.” Aziraphale was struggling not to cry, Crowley could tell. Crowley felt hot tears prick the corners of his own eyes, burning even through the waves of panic. How could it have gone so horribly wrong? “I hope you’re happy,” Aziraphale said finally. He pushed the chair over and strode away. Crowley sat at the table staring straight ahead at nothing until long after the echoes of the clatter had faded away. 

****

The next day, production moved to Iceland. Crowley had been afraid that Aziraphale would quit overnight and leave without a trace, but he had been there in the morning at the airport, eyes red rimmed but resolute. He wouldn’t look at Crowley. When they boarded, Aziraphale turned down a seat in first class, unprecedented behavior, so he wouldn’t have to sit next to Crowley. Watching Aziraphale’s broad shoulders grow further and further away as Aziraphale moved to back of the plane was worse than any circle of Hell with which Crowley was familiar.

Once they made it to Iceland, production had a day off before filming began. It was perhaps the worst day of Crowley’s life since the day Aziraphale had been discorporated. He couldn’t sleep, so he lay in bed in the quaint turf roof house that production had rented and read a copy of Seventeen Magazine from two years ago that a previous tourist had left behind. A dull throbbing started behind Crowley’s eyes, but he refused to miracle it away. He deserved this headache. He deserved much worse than this. But if only he could figure out what he had done wrong? 

Seventeen had no answers. Crowley flopped on his side and stared at the wall. He had followed the script. It was supposed to be the safe way. Karen had assured him there was no risk in it. You can’t go wrong, she’d said. It’s what all the contestants had been doing, for nearly 40 seasons now, so it had to work, right?

And then it hit him, like the blinding flash when light was first created. There was no safe way. If you thought you were doing it the safe way, it just meant you weren’t doing it at all. You couldn’t do it halfway. You could crawl down a rope over the lip of the abyss for as long as you liked, but eventually, as every demon knew, you had to let go. Otherwise it wasn’t falling. It was just an eternity of not making the choice. Crowley cursed and pushed his face into the pillow, sunglasses mashing into the bridge of his nose. He had been such a fool! And Aziraphale, Aziraphale who had been crawling for the better part of six thousand years, had been trying to make the leap. He had almost said so, multiple times. And Crowley had been so wrapped up in the script he hadn’t even offered to catch him. 

“Fuck,” Crowley said to the pillow, then tore off his sunglasses, tossed them on the floor, and went to find Aziraphale. 

****

Aziraphale was soaking in a wooden hot tub in a small copse of fir trees at the edge of the resort. It was the first place Crowley had looked. Crowley might have been an idiot about a lot of things, but you don’t spend eternity in someone’s orbit without getting to know them a bit. 

Crowley walked up to the edge of the wooden tub, feet crunching on snow. Steam rose off the water and the smell of jasmine bath oil wafted towards Crowley. “Can I join you?” Crowley asked softly. 

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale said viscously. “Can you?”

Crowley sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. In six thousand years, some things never changed, and Aziraphale’s willingness to wield proper grammar as a weapon was one of them. “May I join you?” he tried again. 

Aziraphale shifted his shoulders against the back of the tub. “If you like,” he said eventually. 

Crowley undressed the human way until he was just wearing a pair of black boxer briefs. He climbed in. The water only felt warm to him--for a creature of hell after all, nothing that wouldn’t scald a mortal even registered as hot--but it was pleasant, he supposed. Could even be termed relaxing if he wasn’t so on edge about this conversation. 

Aziraphale, who had been resolutely staring at the fir trees across from the hot tub, darted a glance over at Crowley, just a flash of blue behind blond lashes.

“Kind of reminds me of that time in...800 was it?” Crowley said, which was absolutely not what he had been planning to say. All the words had flown out of his mouth at the split second, blink-and-you-miss it arc of Aziraphale’s eyes to Crowley’s, then back again to the woods.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said, low and urgent, in a voice that he barely recognized as his own. This was also not what he had been planning to say, but he was powerless to stop himself, the name tumbling out of his lips before he had a chance to collect himself or even consider what he might say next. 

“You’re not wearing your glasses,” Aziraphale said. 

“No,” Crowley said roughly. 

Aziraphale turned to him. “Why not?” he asked. 

“I guess,” Crowley said, still low. “I guess I wanted to see what you were going to say to me, every time you asked me to take them off.” 

“Are you sure you want to hear it?” Aziraphale asked. 

“I think maybe I don’t deserve to, after how I’ve been these past few weeks,” Crowley said. “But yeah, I do want to hear it. Very much. I’m sorry I made you think I didn’t.”

Aziraphale swallowed and raised his eyes to meet Crowley’s. They were the clearest blue. “I love you,” he said. 

Crowley drew in a sharp breath. “Even after I’ve been such an idiot--” he said.

“Yes,” Aziraphale said simply. 

“Please don’t stop.” Crowley said. “Please don’t stop ever.” 

“My dear,” Aziraphale said, then completely improbably, began to laugh. “You should know by now that all of Heaven and Hell couldn't make me stop.” 

“Yes,” Crowley said, nonsensically, then tried to get a hold of himself. “I...you know that I..” the words stuck in his throat. “You know that...I wasn’t joking,” he finished lamely. “With the rose thing. Before.”

“I know that now,” Aziraphale said, sounding almost sheepish. “I’ve had some time to think about it. I’m afraid I...jumped to all sorts of unfair conclusions.”

Crowley felt his spine relaxing minutely in the warmth of the hot tub. They were going to be ok. It was going to be ok.

“But you also,” Aziraphale continued, a note of accusation in his voice. “It was like you didn’t even want me to say…you kept cutting me off. I had something of a breakdown in front of Becky a few weeks ago, I’m afraid. She told me I just had to be direct. Say the words to your face. I kept trying, but I thought you didn’t want to hear it.”

Now it was Crowley’s turn to laugh. “Becky was giving you advice? I asked Karen D.”

“Well,” Aziraphale said, “that explains a lot.” But he was smiling as he said it.

“I thought you were trying to tell me you wanted to go back to London,” Crowley said. “I kept cutting you off because I didn’t want you to ask. I wouldn’t have had a reason to say no, but I thought if we went back before I…” Crowley swallowed, suddenly serious again. “Made any gestures, then I might never make them at all.”

“I’m glad you did,” Aziraphale said. The slow, easy warmth in his tone was almost too much.

“Does it ever,” Crowley’s chest was tight again just from Aziraphale’s voice. “Does it ever get less scary.”

“What part?” Aziraphale asked, although his eyes said he knew. “The loving?”

“No,” Crowley closed his eyes and tried to breath deeply. “The other part, the…”

“The being loved?” Aziraphale said.

“Yeah,” Crowley said. “Yeah, that part.”

“I’ve learned to bear it,” Aziraphale slid closer to Crowley so their thighs almost brushed underwater. “But then again, I’ve had nearly six thousand years of practice.”

Crowley’s eyes flew open. “You knew?”

“Not until very recently I’m afraid,” Aziraphale sounded sad. “But I’ve felt it for thousands years, I just…didn’t place its origin, as it were, until a shamefully short time ago.” He placed one solid hand on Crowley’s bare chest, fingers spread wide, pressing, holding. It was like being transfixed with a flaming sword. It was terrible, being known like this. It was wonderful.

Crowley breathed through it, managed a crooked smile. “Do you know, when I knew,” he said. “It was May 3rd of 1883. I woke up and the sun was streaming down from a hole in my roof which hadn’t been there when I fell asleep. I hadn’t seen you in twenty years, but then looking at the way the light fell through the dust, I swear angel, it reminded me of you and I--” 

Aziraphale leaned in and stopped Crowley’s words with his lips. A fragment of a memory swam unbidden to the surface of Crowley’s mind. Bright, cold, light and love, the sterile beauty of Heaven. Aziraphale’s lips were a distant echo of that space, but they were warm and soft and so much better. Crowley gasped against them. 

“My love,” Aziraphale breathed, eventually. “That’s a beautiful memory. Why didn’t you start with it?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tone consistency? What is that! 
> 
> Also, update schedule? What is that! (sorry I'm slow y'all)
> 
> Anyway, this took a turn and got a bit more angsty. But I really love the idea of mopey Crowley trying and failing at all these cliche romantic situations so I'm sticking with it. 
> 
> A little bit more Karen POV up next...


	4. Mutually Beneficial Arrangments and Other Eldritch Horrors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m going soft,” the redheaded producer, Crowley was saying. His voice had the anguished tone of confession. “I gave Karen a pair of my glasses and...I...er...blessed her a bit. Just enough to ensure that she gets what she really wants out of the show. I felt I owed her, honestly.” 
> 
> “I’m afraid I did something rather rash as well,” Aziraphale, the kindest of the production staff, whispered back. “I...um...I tempted one of the girls. Got a bit carried away, but I couldn’t help it. She was yearning to do something so badly, and I just...gave her that little nudge. Old habits, and all that.” 
> 
> In which Aziraphale and Crowley traumatize some humans, Parker gets what he deserves, and another mutually beneficial arrangement is suggested.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: brief and non-graphic reference to a man sexually objectifying a woman

“I know there’s been a lot of drama,” Parker said, gathering all the girls around. There were noticeably fewer girls to gather than the last time he had made a toast. Karen D. pressed in closer to Becky B. and lifted her champagne glass as Parker raised his. “But I’d like to cheers to leaving all that behind,” Parker continued, “because….” he let the word hang in the air. Across the circle from Karen D., Mary Michael was dancing on her tiptoes in a way that bore unfortunate resemblance to a lap dog about to pee itself from excitement. “....Because we’re going to Iceland baby!” Parker roared. Mary Michael let out a yip and spilled her champagne. Karen H. screamed loud enough to make the floor shake and clutched at Karen A., prior drama forgotten in the heat of the moment. 

“Oh my god, I’ve always wanted to go to Iceland!” Alyson with a “y” shouted. 

“Cheers,” Karen D. said quietly, clinking her glass against Becky B.’s. 

“Oh,” Becky B. flushed pink next to her. “Cheers, K.”

***

“How do you feel about your connection with Parker?” Aziraphale asked, eyes shining. 

“I am absolutely, 100% in love with him,” Mary Michael said dreamily. The blond producer sighed and dabbed at his eyes with an old fashioned handkerchief produced seemingly from nowhere.

“If you feel that way--” a voice interjected. It was Crowley, the scary red headed producer, who had been quietly setting up lights in the corner of the room. Mary Michael stiffened, waiting for whatever horrible thing he was about to say. 

“Oh, don’t be like that!” Crowley snapped, scowling behind the sunglasses. “I was only going to say, if you love him, you better tell him. Might be your last chance after all. There’s six of you and only four hometown dates next week. Do the math.” 

“Oh,” Mary Micheal said, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. “But what if he doesn’t feel it back? What if I say it and he sends me home?” 

“Well,” Azirphale cut in, still misty eyed. “Love is a leap of faith. I would say the chance is worth it, wouldn’t you, my dear?” Aziraphale fixed his gaze over Mary Michael’s shoulder to where Crowley was still struggling with the lights. 

“Ngk,” Crowley said, and dropped a heavy piece of metal with a clatter. 

“You’re right,” Mary Michael resolved. “I’m going to tell him. I’ve got to tell him.” But Aziraphale was no longer looking at her, or listening at all. 

_Wow_ , Mary Michael thought to herself as she made her way upstairs, the interview apparently over. _I’ve got to ask what kind of spa treatments the producers are getting here._ Aziraphale’s complexion had improved dramtically since they had set foot in Iceland, and now could only be described as radiant. Mary Michael wondered how much it cost and if she could get her skin to glow like that too. 

***

Karen D. really liked Iceland. The hot springs were great. The little ponies were cute, although she hadn’t had a chance to do more than observe them from a distance as the producers steadfastly refused to schedule any more horse-centric dates. It was a pity, then, that Karen couldn’t convince herself to like Parker nearly as much as she liked Iceland. Given that liking Parker seemed woefully out of reach, Karen settled for tolerating him, but even this was becoming a real challenge. 

“Hey,” Parker said, leaning in so close she could smell the mint the producers had given him. The steam of the hot tub rose all around them. “You have really nice,” his eyes flicked down in a way that was clearly aiming for subtle yet cheeky, but got lost on the way there in the quicksand of toxic masculinity and the briar patch of no social graces whatsoever. “...eyes,” he finished, looking back up at her face a few beats too late. 

“Erm,” Karen D. said. 

Of course, the show had always been a means to an end, but now that the end was looking more and more like it might prominently feature Parker down on one knee and not, for instance, a Sephora sponsorship, Karen D. Was getting nervous. 

“...thanks?” she stuttered out, edging around the side of the tub. Parker scooted along after her. 

“Karen D.,” he said earnestly. “I think I can honestly say I’m falling in…”

In panicked desperation, Karen grabbed him by the ears and mashed her mouth to his. 

***

Becky B. watched Karen D.’s date with Parker from the window of the Icelandic Castle/Teambuilding Retreat Center/Hotel/Golf Resort and Spa in which production had rented them rooms. A stab of jealousy ran through her as she watched Karen D. press her mouth to Parker’s. They didn’t break apart for a long time. Karen D. climbed into Parker’s lap, still kissing him, while cameras swarmed around the hot tub. The hair tie Becky had been twisting about in her fingers suddenly snapped. 

A knock sounded at the door behind Becky B. 

“Come in,” she said, not turning around. 

“I just came to say--” it was the producer Aziraphale. “Ah,” he cut himself off, following Becky B’s line of sight. “Oh my.” 

She rounded on him. “I bet this was your idea,” she hissed. “Renting us rooms with a view of the hot tub, then setting up a sexy date right under our noses guaranteed to make everyone jealous. What all the fans say is true. _The Devil works hard, but the Rose of Love producers work harder._ ” Becky B.’s voice had gone up about an octave, but she was so mad she didn’t care. 

“Well, it’s a bit of a low bar,” Aziraphale said, coughing and turning pink. “Although I’ve just recently learned that the devil can work _quite hard_ when he’s sufficiently motivated.” 

“What?”

“Oh well, nevermind,” Azirphale shuffled his feet and, improbably, blushed. “Yes, I’m afraid the hotel arrangements were Crowley’s doing. I _am_ sorry about that. And well, I feel I rather owe you one my dear.” 

Aziraphale made a gesture as though pulling on an invisible light switch dangling from the ceiling. There was a distant guttural scream from the general vicinity of the hot tub. Becky glanced back down to see Parker clutching his stomach and sprinting for the hotel as fast as he could while bent nearly in half.

“Poor boy,” Aziraphale said in sympathy. “It seems the yogurt and cloudberries for lunch didn’t quite agree with him.” 

Becky gaped. 

“Could happen to anyone,” Aziraphale said defensively. “Good thing Karen just stuck to the salami and crackers.” 

Becky looked back out the window. Karen had not gotten out of the hot tub, and didn’t seem to be making any moves to follow Parker. She had sprawled out, leaning back against the wooden rim, an expression of bliss on her face. Somehow she had acquired a pair of very fashionable dark glasses that struck Becky as oddly familiar. Looking down from this angle, Becky had quite the same view that Parker had had just a few minutes earlier. It was as mountainous as the surrounding land, but a great deal more inviting. 

“Water’s still warm,” Aziraphale said, smiling gently and somehow glowing with the same eerie beauty as the aurora borealis that lit up the night sky every evening. “Couldn’t hurt to go down and have a soak. Take the edge off of a stressful week.” 

There was a lilt to Aziraphale’s voice that felt...daring, freeing. It was the kind of voice that Becky heard in the back of her own head back in high school, when she would go on ski trips in Vermont and dare herself to take all the hardest runs down the mountain. It was the kind of voice that had whispered _you have the grades for law school if you wanted to go_ when she had graduated from college, that said, _what are you afraid of, not getting in? Can’t get in if you don’t try you pussy._ It was the same voice that whispered indecent things late at night at Tri Delt parties about how nicely halter tops framed girls’ shoulders and how a sparkly dress might look good worn, but would look even better on the floor. 

__

__

Becky B. was very, very practiced at ignoring that voice. She hardly ever took the adventurous way down the mountain anymore. Sorority connections had paved the way for an office job and a modeling gig on the side, and lack of a boyfriend had paved the way for coming on this show. But now, hearing that voice coming out of Aziraphale’s prim mouth, she felt so incredibly _tempted_ to give in just this once, to follow its lead and see where she ended up. She felt tempted, but also, looking into Aziraphale’s ice blue, radiant eyes, somehow blessed to have ended up here, to have one last chance to open a door that she thought she had shut years and years ago. 

“Right,” Becky B. said, and turned to her suitcase to look for her swimsuit. 

*** 

Alyson with a “y” was sober, and she was not happy about it. The Rose Ceremony was tomorrow night and she was stressed. Plus, she didn’t really like Iceland. It was cold and all the food smelled weird. It was after midnight, but the bar in the hotel lobby was still open. She was heading back upstairs, dirty martini in hand, when the murmur of hushed voices right aroudn the corner of the staircase caught her attention. Both voices were accented--must be the English producers. She edged closer, pressed against the wall, intent on hearing if there were any surprise plans that could upset her chance at a rose. 

“I’m going soft,” the redheaded producer, Crowley was saying. His voice had the anguished tone of confession. “I gave Karen a pair of my glasses and...I...er...blessed her a bit. Just enough to ensure that she gets what she really wants out of the show. I felt I owed her, honestly.” 

“I’m afraid I did something rather rash as well,” Aziraphale, the kindest of the production staff, whispered back. “I...um...I tempted one of the girls. Got a bit carried away, but I couldn’t help it. She was yearning to do something so badly, and I just...gave her that little nudge. Guess I got more into the habit of tempting than I realized.” 

“You miss the Arrangement?” Crowley said, voice flat and low. Alyson wrinkled her nose. What arrangement? 

“Oh no, my dear,” Aziraphale said hurriedly. “I don’t miss all the sneaking around, I don’t miss having to deny what we both felt, to deny you--” 

Crowley made a noise like a wounded animal and Aziraphale cooed, actually cooed. It was enough to make even Alyson, whose idea of romance was rose petals on a heart shaped bed, cringe. 

“I did like some of the tempting though,” Aziraphale continued. “Giving people what they wanted for so long and couldn’t just _reach for_ themselves.” 

“Mmm” Crowley said softly. They were silent for so long that Alyson almost moved on from her hiding place. 

“Oh!” Aziraphale exclaimed suddenly. “I almost forgot, I also did something unspeakable to Parker. But I’m not sorry about it.” 

Crowley chuckled gently. “You shouldn’t be sorry. I think that one actually counts as more of a blessing than a curse, angel. The girls in the house should all be thanking you. And I’m sure Parker will be fine in the end, although his dignity may take a while to recover. I hear he didn’t make it back to his room.” 

“I have it from reliable sources,” Aziraphale’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “That production got the whole thing on camera.” 

“Angel,” Crowley’s voice wavered and Alyson shuddered at the density of feeling crammed into those two syllabus. It felt obscene and overwhelming and utterly wrong to overhear. “I could kissss you,” Crowley continued in a strange, strangled hiss. 

“Could you?” Aziraphale's voice was teasing. "Ask me properly." 

“For fuck’s sake, Angel, may--” 

Crowley’s voice was cut off. Soft, wet sounds drifted from around the corner and Alyson beat a hasty retreat. This went way beyond spying to get a leg up on the competition. She didn’t know what Crowley would do to her if he learned she was eavesdropping and she didn’t want to find out. And Aziraphale would probably say something soft and cutting like, “I’m so disappointed in you my dear,” which would honestly be even worse than whatever Crowley dreamed up. No, best not to risk it. Although Alyson thought as she drifted to sleep, this did go a long way towards explaining why everyone in the house had been on such good behavior of late. 

*** 

Karen D. was standing outside the door of Aziraphale’s room. She was all out of eyeliner, and really needed some for the Rose Ceremony tonight. Even though she was actively trying to get sent home, a good smokey eye never looked bad on camera and Karen had an image to maintain. Besides, recent adventures in a hot tub had proved that there _was_ someone here she might be interested in impressing. Never mind that that person wasn’t Parker. 

She raised her hand to knock, but before she could do so, her brain caught up to her ears which had been insisting for some time that the sounds filtering out from Aziraphale’s room did _not_ want to be interrupted. 

“Fuck, angel…” came a breathy moan, in a voice she recognized all too well. _Damn_ , she thought, impressed with herself. _I am good. Guess my advice worked after all._

“No, no, wait….stop!” That was Crowley again. Abruptly, the frankly obscene wet noises ceased. “Aziraphale,” Crowley said, more clearly this time. “There’s a human at the door.” 

“Oh?” Aziraphale’s voice sounded an octave lower than she remembered it, and it reverberated with an odd quality that made her think inexplicably of the echoes inside churches. “Well, I better go see what it wants then. Might be something about the show.” 

“C’mon, Angel…” Crowley sounded pleading and out of breath. “Can’t you just make the human go away?” 

“Can’t neglect our duties just because we’re…that is to say…now that we...” Aziraphale seemed at a loss for words. All at once, there was an odd rustling sound and footsteps coming towards the doorway. 

“Angel,” Crowley’s voice was a low panicked hiss. “Angel you’ve got to put away your--” 

But it was too late because Aziraphale had opened the door. 

Karen D. would have screamed if she wasn’t frozen in the spot, vocal cords and all. The being that stood in front of her looked like Aziraphale the producer. His face was kind in the same way, but it was also suffused with an unsettling light. Was he...glowing? He appeared to have two eyes-- _a normal number of eyes_ Karen thought hysterically--but something nudging at the edge of her consciousness kept insisting that the face in front of her was _only_ eyes and very little else. He was entirely naked, except for a small towel fighting--and losing--the good fight on behalf of modesty and common decency. Two large white wings fluttered uncertainty behind him, creating a draft in the hallway. 

“I’m sorry my dear, but now is really not a good time,” Aziraphale said, at the same time as Karen D. croaked out, “What are you?” 

“Oh, drat,” said Aziraphale, sounding so much like himself again that Karen almost snapped out of it. 

“I’ll say,” said Crowley, who was sitting up in the large bed that Karen could see through the open door of the room. Thankfully, the blankets piled up around him covered the important bits. Unfortunately they didn’t cover the large black wings sprouting from his back or the yellow gleam of his eyes. 

“Urmf,” said Karen, which was about as eloquent as she could manage right now. 

“You’d better fix the human,” Crowley said “I think you’ve broken it.” 

“A little help here…?” Aziraphale asked out of the side of his mouth. 

Sighing dramatically, Crowley slung his long legs over the side of the bed and snapped his fingers-- 

*** 

Karen blinked. Aziraphale was standing before her in a fluffy white hotel robe. Crowley was standing behind him, wrapped in one of the comforters from the bed. Both were looking at her anxiously. At least, Aziraphale was. It was hard to tell with Crowley as he never took off those damned sunglasses. 

“What did you need help with young lady?” Aziraphale asked, beaming at her. 

“Makeup,” Karen answered automatically. “I...um...need eyeliner.” 

“I think we can help with that,” Aziraphale said. 

“Hmm,” Crowley leaned closer to Aziraphale. “I don’t think she’s all the way right yet. Do you?” 

“I’m not right?” Karen blurted. “It took me all of two seconds after meeting you to know you should be together. And how long did it take you to act on it, all fucking season? You’re not quite right.” Karen clapped a hand over her mouth. 

“Oh, dear,” Aziraphale said sighing deeply. “Lowered inhibitions, I see what you mean.” 

Crowley meanwhile, appeared to have found something she said incredibly funny. “Took a bit longer than a television season, reality TV human,” he said, apparently to Karen. Then he turned to Aziraphale. “Why don’t you try to fix it this time?” 

Aziraphale’s eyes narrowed in suspicion as if something important had just occurred to him. “Incidentally, my dear girl, what does the D. stand for?” he asked, ignoring Crowley who was miming a snapping gesture behind him. “I realize it’s been all season and I never asked you that.” 

"Oh, um, Device,” Karen D. said, distracted by an image that came to her unbidden of wings, great big fucking white wings like on a bird or an angel or---. She took a deep breath, tried to regain her usually flawless composure. “Karen Device. Grew up on the West Coast with my cousins in Santa Monica.” 

Aziraphale exchanged a brief but significant glance with Crowley, who shrugged. 

“Well,” Crowley said, “clairvoyant or not, you can’t just leave her like this.” 

“Leave me like what?” Karen D. asked, only dimly aware that her entire body was trembling like a leaf. 

“Right, right,” Aziraphale rubbed his hands together and reached up like he was pulling on the cord of a lightswitch. “When you awake you will be filled with the most wonderful confidence, you find yourself especially well rested--” 

*** 

Karen D. was standing outside the door of Aziraphale’s room. She was all out of eyeliner, and really needed some for the Rose Ceremony tonight. Vaguely, she remembered she had been very anxious and out of sorts about something earlier. Must have been the eyeliner and the upcoming Rose Ceremony and the prospect of Parker trying again to say that he-- 

She raised her hand to knock, but before she could, Aziraphale opened the door. He was beaming at her, practically glowing, above his signature bowtie. 

“Whatever’s the matter my dear girl?” he said. 

“It’s just, I’ve run out of eyeliner and the Rose Ceremony is tonight,” Karen D. said. “I thought you might be able to help?” 

“You can borrow mine if you like,” drawled another voice from further inside the room. Karen D. peeked around the edge of the door Aziraphale was holding ajar. Crowley was lying on Aziraphale’s bed, a smear of black against the white sheets, painting his nails a fiery red. How he could see well enough through his dark glasses not to mess up the polish was a mystery to Karen. 

“Aziraphale, grab it for her, would you? It’s on the dressing table.” 

Aziraphale did as he was told. With the door fully open now, Karen D. could see that their room was immaculate. The bed was made, not a wrinkle out of place, except where Crowley’s thin form dented the bedspread. Both Crowley and Aziraphale were fully dressed, Nevertheless there was something in the air of the room that gave off the impression of clothes strewn all over the floor, rumpled sheets, furniture knocked askew in two people’s haste to get at one another. 

Karen D. blinked and the room refocused back to its pristine state. Crowley stretched like a cat and got up from the bed, sauntering over to where Aziraphale was rummaging in a black bag on top of the dresser. He hooked his chin over Aziraphale’s shoulder and pointed with one newly painted nail. “That’s the one.” 

Aziraphale was blushing furiously when he returned to the door to hand the eyeliner over. 

Crowley followed him to the doorway. “Now, girl,” he said as Aziraphale passed the thin black pencil to Karen D. “This is my personal eyeliner. Not the shit makeup the network purchases for us to give out. You’ll have a cat eye so flawless, it’s practically sinful.” 

Karen D. believed him. She refrained from making any comments about what a man who wore dark glasses everywhere would need with a sinful cateye. The flush high on Aziraphale’s cheeks suggested that Crowley’s efforts had at the very least, an audience of one, and that this audience was highly appreciative. 

“What I’m saying is, this eyeliner is fit for the devil himself,” Crowley draped one arm over Aziraphale’s shoulders, fingers fanned out so that his nails wouldn’t smudge. “Use it with style.” 

Crowley was trying to say thank you, Karen D. realized. He just didn’t say it in words. Karen understood this approach. She wasn’t much for words either. Karen had quite emphatically and repeatedly been saying things without words in various storage closets and secluded woodland clearings ever since a bad date had been interrupted and then turned in a very good date earlier this week. 

“Thanks,” she said. Aziraphale beamed. Karen got the impression through the sunglasses that Crowley was rolling his eyes at her, but in a fond way. 

Aziraphale moved to shut the door. On impulse, Karen kicked a foot out to stop it from closing. 

“I…I’m really happy for you guys,” she said. “That it all worked out in the end.” 

Crowley was flushing too now, the tips of his ears turning red. He made a series of sounds, none of them words and moved to shut the door again. 

“It’s just...wow you’re really in love aren’t you. Kind of inspiring.” 

“I…” Crowley’s mouth moved but no words came out. He had given up on shutting the door, and was looking over at Aziraphale. “I know I never said…but..” 

Aziraphale’s eyes were steely and bright, trained on Crowley’s face. Karen almost had to shield her own eyes to look at him. She had no idea how Crowley was able to stand it. 

Crowley had moved to take Aziraphale’s hands in his own, freshly painted nails forgotten. “You..” he said, then “I...I also, you know, right, I also...I” 

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale’s hands came up to cup his cheeks. It was almost like they had forgotten she was there. “You don’t have to--” 

“I love you,” Crowley said in a rush, tearing off his sunglasses to reveal yellow eyes that gave Karen a curious sense of deja vu. “I love you so much, Angel, I--” Then Aziraphale leaned in and was kissing him against the doorframe, aggressively, violently even. A strange energy coiled in the air like a serpent about to strike. Aziraphale’s mouth moved lower, biting at Crowley’s neck, mouthing words not meant for anyone’s ears but Crowley’s. 

“....most ardently…” Karen heard him say. Crowley’s head fell back against the doorframe with a crack, terrifying eyes falling closed. 

"Um, I’ll just…” she said and backed away down the hallway. 

One yellow eye opened and fixed on her. “Oh, fuck,” Crowley swore. “Forgot about the human again.” He snapped his fingers. 

*** 

Karen woke from a very refreshing nap. She checked her watch, then started. There was barely enough time to get ready for the Rose Ceremony! She rummaged around in her makeup bag looking for her eyeliner and frowned. The pencil she pulled out didn’t look like a brand she usually bought or even recognized. She didn’t have anything else though, and tonight was an important night. 

Karen carefully applied the pencil to her lids. When she was done, she surveyed her reflection with satisfaction. Even though her stomach twisted with nerves, her eyes were _perfect_. Karen was a woman of few words, so she had written them down on an index card. She looked it over once last time, then put it in her bra, strapped on her stiletto heels, and headed downstairs to suggest a Mutually Beneficial Arrangement to one of her castmates and make _Rose of Love_ history along the way. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry it took forever to get this posted. This story has not been abandoned, I promise! Just the epilogue to go. 
> 
> I hope you are enjoying the Karen and Becky shenanigans. I would DIE for this to happen on the actual [name redacted] show. Chris Harrison, if you're listening, call me up, I will write you the scripts!


	5. Secrets of the Rose of Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Crowley and Aziraphale finally watch what they hath wrought, Karen goes corporate, and bets are won and lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear this fic was going to be rated T….and then I just HAD to include a little bit of dialogue (you’ll know it when you see it) because I couldn’t stop laughing at how terrible it was and we somehow ended up at M. Everything is still implied and it’s not very graphic at all. If you skip the italicized bits you’ll end up with a T rated work, which I recommend doing if explicit sex or very bad metaphors are not your thing. 
> 
> CW: mild references to AIDS crisis, hints at exhibitionism, atrocious euphemisms for “asshole”

“Don’t forget the wine!” Aziraphale called to Crowley. 

“Wouldn’t dare!” Crowley shouted back from the kitchen of the small cottage. He hurried back to the couch, bowl of popcorn under one arm, rosé under the other, two glasses in his hands. 

Aziraphale shuffled to the side of the couch as Crowley set his things down and sprawled out long and lean next to him. 

“Ready to watch?” he asked. 

“Absolutely my dear, just--” Aziraphale reached for the wine then made a noise of dismay. “Screw top, Crowley, really?”

“Well,” Crowley smirked up from where he had wriggled, head nestled in Aziraphale’s lap. “You wanted to do this the authentic way. So here we are. Popcorn, check, crap wine, check. It ruins the experience if you miracle it into something nicer.” 

Aziraphale sighed, a bit put upon, but mostly fond. He reached down to run his fingers through Crowley’s hair. Crowley leaned into the touch. 

“You’re also supposed to play a game where you guess who is going to get each week’s dates, and which girls are going to cry, and so on,” Crowley continued. “But kind of spoiled it for ourselves, so…” 

“Indeed,” Aziraphale said, leaning down to press a kiss to Crowley’s lips. “Although we never did find out how it ended. A certain demon couldn’t keep his hands to himself, got us kicked off set…” 

Crowley raised an eyebrow at him. “As I recall, a certain angel’s exhibitionism kink had something to do with it as well.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips and didn’t say anything. Sensing he had won this round, Crowley reached for the remote and turned on the TV. 

“Welcome back to the most dramatic season yet of _The Rose of Love_ ” the show host’s voice intoned over a sweeping shot of Tuscan farmland. “Tonight, will Parker find love?” The screen cut to a shot of Parker in a suit, standing on a balcony at sunset with a carefully crafted wistful expression pasted on his face. “Or will he have his heart broken in a shocking twist none of us saw coming?” The shot changed to one of Parker lying in the fetal position on his bed in the Icelandic castle moaning weakly. 

“Didn’t know heartbreak caused gastrointestinal distress,” Crowley muttered. 

Azirahphale’s fingers tightened in his hair briefly. “Dearest,” Aziraphale said, “I spent six thousand years eating my feelings. I assure you it doesn’t.” 

It was ridiculous how, even a full year into this new arrangement, an offhand comment could still make Crowley’s chest tight with nameless, bittersweet longing at a moment’s notice. Helpless, he rolled in Aziraphale’s grip and turned to press his face against his soft belly, nosing the fabric of his sweater up so that he could kiss along bare skin. “Didn’t mean,” he said, between kisses, “to break your heart.” More kisses. “Don’t want you to feel that way.” Kiss. “Ever again angel.” 

“You never,” Aziraphale said, letting out a sharp breath, hand fisting in Crowley’s hair. “You never made me feel that way. It was my own foolishness, my inability to break the rules.” 

“No rules now,” Crowley said, nosing downward with a bit more intent. Aziraphale sighed above him and spread his legs. That was more like it, Crowley thought, flicking his tongue out to taste the air... 

“Crowley!” The welcome pressure of Aziraphale’s hand in his hair became a sharp tug upwards and away from--. Crowley whined. He couldn’t help it.

“Focus!” Aziraphale chided. “I thought you wanted to watch the show!” 

Sighing, Crowley sat up and shot a sidelong glance over at Aziraphale who looked gratifyingly pink about the cheeks. 

“Oh, I’m afraid we missed the first half of the episode!” Aziraphale exclaimed with dismay. 

“It’s alright,” Crowley smirked, giving Aziraphle’s rumpled form another, more lingering glance. “Besides--” he gestured towards the screen where the girls were lining up for a Rose Ceremony in the Icelandic castle. “This is right about the time when we er...stopped watching it live.” 

“You mean right around the time when the network kicked us off the set for good and made us sign agreements stating that we would never work for them again as long as we lived?” Aziraphale asked. 

“Yeah, that,” Crowley said, a touch of bitterness in his tone. He was still smarting over how ironclad the network’s cease-and-desist paperwork had been. It was never fun when someone showed you up at your own game. 

“I think we missed this Rose Ceremony,” Aziraphale mused, wrinkling his nose. “What were we up to instead, I wonder?” 

“I believe,” Crowley drawled, sitting up even further and turning so he could look Aziraphale in the eye, “you were in the process of learning about the weird things I can do with my tongue. By the way,” he waggled his eyebrows and leaned in further. “I doubt you’ve discovered all of them. Barely even scratched the surface.” 

Aziraphale blushed even deeper. “Let’s just watch the show, dear. You can always educatate me later.” 

Suspenseful music played from the screen in front of them as the show came back from commercial break. “The most dramatic season yet in _Rose of Love_ history,” intoned the host over shots of Karen A. and Karen H. fighting. There was a shot through the trees of Karen D. and Parker making out in the hot tub. “A first in the history of the show...” the host continued over a wide shot of Becky B. in tears in Iceland cut with a close up of Parker’s hand reaching for a rose that had been digitally enhanced to look extra red. The camera panned back to hover over Parker’s shoulder as six gorgeous women waited anxiously in front of him. 

“Pretty well shot if I say so myself,” Crowley murmured. 

“Oh hush,” Aziraphale swatted at his thigh. “You and I both know you were _not_ behind the camera for this part.” 

“True,” Crowley conceded with a grin. “As I recall I _was_ behind something though. And I didn’t hear you complaining about my shooting abilities.” 

Azirahale coughed out a mouthful of screw top rosé. 

“Karen D.” Parker said on screen, “Will you accept this Rose of Love?” 

Karen walked down from the risers and took the rose from Parker. The music swelled. 

“Actually,” Karen D. said, turning the rose over in her hands. The music abruptly switched to something more suspenseful. “Parker, I don’t think it’s working between us. It's not fair to you to keep this going when you have connections with so many other girls and I have--” 

Karen D. broke off and looked up at the row of girls. “Becky B.,” she said. The camera zoomed in on the rose in Karen’s hand, then cut to another wide shot. “Becky B.,” Karen said, reaching into the top of her dress to pull out an index card. “The past few weeks with you have been amazing beyond my wildest dreams. I found myself falling for you more and more every week. And this week, when we explored our physical connection for the first time, I knew. I knew I had to ask--Becky B., will you accept this Rose of Love?” 

Two of the other girls screamed. Parker looked dumbfounded. But Becky B. had eyes only for Karen. She stepped off the riser and took the rose from Karen’s hand. 

“Of course,” she said, and kissed Karen D. full on the lips. 

To their credit, the producers had inserted the same kind of swelling music they usually included whenever a candidate accepted Parker’s rose. The camera lingered on the women for the full network approved two point five seconds before panning back over Parker’s shocked face and the considerably less shocked faces of the four remaining girls. 

One by one, smiles began to appear on the faces of the remaining girls, as they began to do basic arithmetic, starting with Karen A. who, as Crowley recalled, was the sharpest of the bunch. There were four girls left on stage and four hometown dates. It didn’t take a genius to figure it out. 

The camera swooped back to catch one last shot of Karen D. and Becky B. leaving the castle hand in hand, then cut to commercial. 

In the commerical, Karen D., with a new set of blond highlights, was walking briskly down a busy New York block, wearing a tight denim jacket with a rainbow pin on one lapel and a bisexual flag pin on the other. “Wherever I go,” Karen said, tossing her hair over one shoulder, “I go with pride.” She turned the corner and headed into a glass storefront. “And why should banking be any different?” She pulled out a rainbow emblazoned credit card and winked one flawlessly made up eye at the camera. The commercial cut to a black screen with the name of a major multinational banking corporation emblazoned over it and the slogan “Bank With Pride.” 

“Well,” Aziraphale said when he had sufficiently recovered and the TV had moved on to a more mundanely horrifying drug commercial playing dire warnings about side effects over shots of a laughing mother and her children. “I guess Karen got what she wanted.”

“Yeah,” Crowley said. “Maybe not the sponsorship she thought she was going to get, but I’m sure being the face of Pride pays better than being an Instagram Influencer these days.” 

“Instagram Influencer,” Aziraphale said as if he were just now learning a swear word in a new language.

“It was Karen’s plan all along,” Crowley shrugged. “She just realized there were bigger ponds to swim in. When I blessed her, it was to get what _she_ wanted out of the show after all.” 

“But using her private life, using her pride and confidence in her identity to...sell things?” Aziraphale wrinkled his nose. 

“Um,” Crowley said, then deciding he ought to rip the band aid off quickly, asked, “haven’t been to a Pride parade recently, have you angel?” 

“Not since the ‘80s,” Aziraphale said, sipping at his wine delicately as if it were a much better vintage. “You know I did as many blessings as I could get away with in those days. It was so awful for the poor dears.” 

Crowley shuddered. If demons had nightmares, _which they didn’t_ , this particular demon would have had them about Pestillence’s wildly successful campaign to rebrand and stay relevant at the end of the 20th century. 

“Well, Pride’s not like it was in those days Angel,” he said, pushing away the memories. “I um...It’s possible that I was a bit stressed out about the Apocalypse and a smidge sexually frustrated when we were working for the Dowlings. I might--just maybe--have tweaked things a bit and made Pride, well, a little teensy bit corporate?” 

“Oh,” Aziaphale sounded taken aback, and then chuckled. “You know, if I had been paying attention, I probably could have passed your work off as divine intervention on my yearly reports. Sounds like exactly the kind of thing Gabriel would have given me a commendation for.” 

“Mm,” Crowley agreed, shifting again so that his head was back in Aziraphale’s lap. His wine obligingly ignored the laws of gravity so that he could still drink it while lying down. 

The rest of the episode passed quickly in a haze of tears and manufactured heartfelt confessions. At the end of it all, Karen A. was eliminated and cried the entire limo ride to the airport. 

“Poor girl,” Aziraphale said, stroking Crowley’s neck with one soft hand. “She ought to have expected it though. Parker did seem to prefer blondes.” 

“Guess I’ve got that in common with him,” Crowley said, trying to leer up at Aziraphale but aware that he was losing a battle with the hopelessly fond smile trying to crawl across his face. 

Azirahphale’s hand tightened on his neck and Crowley sighed into it. “Incorrigible devil,” Azirahphale said. “So who do you think is going to win?” 

“Oh,” Crowley scrolled through his phone. “I know who won. Mary Michael obviously.” 

“Why are you so sure?”

“It was spoiled two weeks ago on twitter,” Crowley said, handing the phone up. “Look.” 

Aziraphale took Crowley’s phone with the air of someone handling a cursed object. Crowley rolled his eyes. The screen displayed a grainy photograph of Parker kneeling on a tropical beach at sunrise in front of Mary Michael who had been captured in what could only be described as a full body squeal. The photograph appeared to have been taken from the ocean. 

“You know,” Crowley said, “there’s a young man in Samoa, a very promising surfer but not a lot of connections. Right around the time _The Rose of Love_ was filming in polynesia, he just so happened to get noticed by Red Bull and get a sponsorship that included a camera for filming from the front of his surfboard. And dawn is the best time for the waves on that particular beach…or so I’m told.” 

“You didn’t,” Aziraphale gasped. 

“Wouldn’t be a demon if I didn’t get to spoil things some of the time,” Crowley grinned. 

“You spoil me all the time,” Aziraphale said, rubbing with intent at that spot behind Crowley’s ear that always made his knees go wobbly. Good thing he was already lying down. “Speaking of,” Aziraphale continued, “wasn’t there something you were going to show me. I think it involved your particularly talented tongue…?” 

***

Minutes, or possibly hours later, after evil had attempted to ruin good, and then good had quite thoroughly trounced evil on the couch, and moved on to cuddling evil in the bedroom of a shared country cottage purchased after an extended trip to America nearly a year ago, evil sat bolt up upright and said, “Hey Aziraphale, you know what this means?” 

“Hmm?” Aziraphale distangled wings and arms from Crowley’s side and sat up too. 

“I won the bet,” Crowley said triumphantly. “You can’t tell me that Mary Michael loved Parker. And Parker definitely was in lust with her, not in love. Believe me, I know the difference.” 

“You did not win!” Aziraphale spluttered. “What about Karen and Becky?” 

“Already split up I’m afraid,” Crowley said, far too cheerfully. He scrolled through his phone again. “Karen is in talks to be Bachelorette, if this human called Reality Joe can be believed. Apparently it’s going to be the first season ever with a mixed gender cast. It’s going to be such a mess. We’ve got to watch it.” 

“But what about Becky?” Aziraphale asked. 

“Oh, I think Becky’s fine,” Crowley smiled. “Didn’t she just call you the other day to tell you she took the LSAT? She and Karen were great for each other, sure. They helped each other find themselves. But it wasn’t…” 

“Wasn’t this?” Aziraphale asked, wrapping his arms around Crowley. 

“Yeah,” Crowley said, voice suddenly tight. “It wasn’t.” 

“Would you ever have had the courage to say how you felt to me?” Aziraphale asked into Crowley’s hair. “If we hadn’t gone on the show that is?” 

“I couldn’t find the words after six thousand years and surviving the Apocalypse with you,” Shame swelled in Crowley’s chest. “Satan, I probably would have gone another six thousand before I so much as tried again to tell you we were _friends_.” 

“Me as well,” Aziraphale said. “And for that, I am sorry.” 

“It’s alright,” Crowley said, “we both had a lot to apologize for. But we’re past that now, yeah?” 

“You’re my best friend,” Aziraphale murmured, pressing his lips to the snake mark on the side of Crowley’s cheek. “Which is why I am absolutely not sorry to gloat over having won our bet.” 

“You didn’t win!” 

“Did you not just say,” Aziraphale cut him off, “that you never would have told me how you felt if we didn’t go on the show? Didn’t I just stay the same thing.” 

“Oh,” Crowley breathed.

“Say it,” Aziraphale said, in that deep voice that always felt like it was turning Crowley’s insides into a 1950s era jello concoction. “Say I won.” 

“You’re a bastard, you know that?” Crowley hissed, turning to kiss Aziraphale messily on the mouth. “Alright, yes, you won. Five of your books and five of mine. That was the deal, right?”

“Yes, it was,” Aziraphale said. “In fact,” he gestured and the lights in the bedroom went on. Aziraphale reached over to pick up a book from the teetering pile on his bedside table. “Why don’t we ease you into it with something you're a bit familiar with already.” 

Crowley glanced down at the proffered book. “SECRETS OF THE ROSE OF LOVE” the title proclaimed in large neon letters. Then in smaller font: “Scandalous Behind the Scenes Stories from the Steamy Series.” 

“Oh _no_ ,” he said. 

“Oh yes,” Aziraphale countered. “It’s a tell-all. A best seller in America right now. Turns out when Parker broke it off with Karen A., he didn’t realize that she’s been writing erotica under a pen name for years, and was prepared to use her literary--well, I wouldn’t call them talents--literary _acumen_ to, what is that phrase? _Rip him a new one._ ” 

“Oh that’s wicked,” Crowley breathed. He always did like to see it when people broke the rules, and the non-disclosure agreements the show made everyone sign were impressively hard to wriggle out of. 

“I normally wouldn’t go so far as to call something like this literature,” Aziraphale sniffed. “But one has to start somewhere.” 

“Sure,” Crowley said, flipping the book open to a random page. He began reading aloud. 

_When you live in the house as one of the contestants, you are entirely cut off from the outside world. No internet access, no TV, nothing. The producers keep you under constant scrutiny, and work hard to turn women against one another. The only response to this scrutiny was to work just as hard to watch them, to turn the tables on them and stay one step ahead of production’s little tricks. All the girls knew this. All the girls watched the producers like hawks. There were two producers on the show that we all referred to as “The Angel '' and “The Demon,” because it seemed at first like they had been cast to fulfill specific archetypes and wage psychological warfare on us, acting alternately kind and cruel. On set, they even called one another “Angel” and “Demon” as though the way they tormented us was nothing more than an inside joke for them. The rivalry between the girls in the house paled in comparison to the rivalry between the Angel and the Demon producers._

_However, not all was as it seemed. Little did I know that my journey towards love would be only the backdrop to an epic journey from enemies to lovers that scandalously took place behind the scenes of the show, the shocking details of which never aired on TV but can be found in the following pages…_

“No,” Crowley broke off, looking at Aziraphale in horror. “Please tell me this is not going where I think it’s going.” 

“Just keep reading,” the angel said. “It gets better.” 

_One of the girls had stolen a headset from production early in the show. I knew about this headset and, as an investigative journalist--_

“Investigative journalist?” Crowley repeated incredulously. Aziraphale waved a hand for him to continue. Crowley rolled his eyes, but kept reading.

_As an investigative journalist, I knew I needed to get my hands on that headset. It was only in Iceland, at the end of filming, that I was able to sneak into the other girl’s room while she was distracted in the hot tub. I found the headset in her suitcase easily. Imagine my surprise when I slipped it over my ears to hear:_

_“Wait you want to...here? On the craft services table?” that voice was unmistakably the voice of the demonic producer._

_“I don’t see anyone stopping you, do you? Don’t you want to?” the equally recognizable voice of the angelic one replied. I pressed the headset closer to my ears, heart pounding. What secrets was I about to discover?_

_“Angel, you’ve no idea how much I want to. I’ve wanted to for ages.”_

_“Do you now? Do you want to take my Rose of Love?”_

_“I do, I do. I want to so badly.” the demonic producer’s voice was breathy. “If you’ll give it to me--”_

_“What would you do with it if I gave it to you? Would you like to touch it? Would you like to lick it? Eat at it with that talented tounge of yours?” There was the sound of a zipper being drawn down and clothes rustling. The angelic producer was breathing heavily into what must have been a lapel mic that hadn’t been turned off._

_“Satan, yes,” came the more distant voice of the other producer. “I’d lick it, Angel, lick your tight little Rose of Love, lick it and eat at it till it blooms open for me, and then I’d fill it however you want. I want to get my mouth on you. Wanted to get my mouth on you since the 14th century at least--”_

_“Do you deserve it, have you been good? Get on your knees for me, I’ll see if I let you have it.”_

_“Oh please, please, angel--”_

Crowley stopped reading abruptly. “When,” he asked eventually. “When did we realize the mic was still on?” 

“Um,” Aziraphale at least had the decency to look mildly embarrassed. “A while after this I’m afraid.” 

“Before or after I offered to paint your red rose white?” Crowley bit out. “Just...just so I can prepare myself.” 

“Quite a bit after.” 

Crowley made a sound that was not words. “They sell this in bookshops?” He managed eventually. “Next to other perfectly innocent books?”

“Anyone who thinks other books are perfectly innocent clearly has not read Gustave Flaubert or D. H. Lawrence,” Aziraphale said archly. “Anyway, if it helps, the critics’ consensus is that it’s highly fictionalized. The _New York Times Book Review_ even suggested that several of the acts described are physiologically impossible.” 

“Well,” Crowley said, sounding strangled. “Joke’s on them I guess.” 

“Indeed.” Aziraphale reached out and took the book from Crowley’s unresisting hands. “Perhaps we will come back to this. What book were you going to pick out for your part of the bet?” 

“Oh, um...Hadn’t really thought of it,” Crowley lied. 

Aziraphale just looked at him. 

“Oh, alright,” Crowley sighed. “Yes, I’ll fetch it from the library. But it’s um, not...not really like the book you picked out. You’ll think I’m being silly.” 

Crowley got up from bed before he could lose his nerve and before Aziraphale could reply. 

Naked but for his wings, Crowley walked into the kitchen to pick up a pair of sturdy rubber dishwashing gloves from under the sink. It never hurt to be too careful with holy objects after all, Aziraphale’s corporation notwithstanding. 

Crowley retreived a thick volume from one of the shelves and returned to sprawl on the bed next to Aziraphale. He cracked open the book, careful to hold it up away from his lap and began to read before he lost his nerve. 

_Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth—  
for your love is more delightful than wine.  
Pleasing is the fragrance of your perfumes;  
your name is like perfume poured out._

“Oh Crowley,” Aziraphale said, reaching out to stroke his fingers over Crowley’s thigh. He didn’t say anything more, so Crowley swallowed and read on. 

_….Rise up, my love, my beautiful one, and come away.  
For, behold, the winter is past.  
The rain is over and gone.  
The flowers appear on the earth.  
The time of the singing has come…_

Crowley hadn’t dared to look at Aziraphale as he read, but now, getting to this passage, he couldn’t help himself. He peeked out of the corner of his eye. Silent tears were streaming down Aziraphale’s face. Without speaking, Aziraphale reached out and took the bible from Crowley’s unresisting gloved hands and placed it carefully on his own bedside table, where Crowley wouldn’t accidentally brush up against it. He took Crowley’s face in his palms and leaned in, kissing him gently. 

“My beloved is mine” Aziraphale said, finally when he pulled away. “And I am his.”

“Yeah,” Crowley said, because he was a demon after all, and he drew a line at quoting bible passages from memory, even if he had stooped so low as to read half of the Song of Songs to his lover while naked in bed. “That...thing.” He cleared his throat roughly. “You’re mine and I’m yours. Yep.” 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, leaning in to kiss him again, not pulling away this time. It was, Crowley thought, the happiest he had ever been to lose a bet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some odds and ends: My headcanon is that Crowley made Pride corporate by accident and Gabriel loves it. Also, there's that line in the Book Omens (which I might remind readers was published when the AIDS crisis was in full swing) about how pestillence retired in the 1940s. That line never sat well with me given the historical context and I have just been waiting for an opportunity in fic to repair it. 
> 
> In what other fandom could one combine gratuitous references to reality TV with The Song of Songs? Truly, this fic has been a wild ride. Many thanks to readers for sticking with it, and to friends at the GO Rom Com whose inspired comments and encouragement made this fic 200% more absurd than it was going to be.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm trying to make fandom friends,[come say hi](https://princip1914.tumblr.com) on tumblr! I love and cherish each and every comment here too.


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